Neil Perry was the kind of person who burned too brightly, who laughed too easily, who carried the weight of the world like it was something he could outrun if he only moved fast enough.

And yet, he always seemed to slow down when it came to you.

“Are you going to talk to her, or just keep staring like a lovesick poet?” Charlie teased, balancing his chair on two legs.

Neil shot him a look. “I’m not staring.”

Charlie snorted. “Right. And Keating’s not a madman.”

Neil ignored him, fingers drumming lightly against the worn wooden desk. Across the courtyard, you sat with a book in your lap, completely unaware of his gaze. The autumn sun framed you in gold, turning the moment into something that belonged in a dream.

He should look away. He should focus.

But poetry never came from looking away.

And Neil Perry had always been a poet at heart.